Page 11 of Mr. Brightside

I’mawound-upbundleof energy walking from the main lobby to his unit. I’m not nervous in the traditional sense, but I’m anxious-borderline-excited about what’s happening tonight.

This isn’t me. I don’t do things like this.

I’m a relationship man through and through. I love being in love: Going on dates. Lying in bed on a lazy weekend morning. Having someone to share things with. Being taken care of. So why the hell does meeting up with the king of casual excite me so much?

Because it’s Jake.

The boy has this magnetism. He’s a living, breathing paradox that always takes me by surprise. Equal parts cocky and kind, he goes to extreme lengths for the people he loves. I overheard plenty of things he said to Tori when she and Rhett were struggling: how he supported her, lifted her up.

I also remember some of the things he said to me on the few occasions we hooked up. Word for word, in fact. Just thinking about his dirty mouth has me sucking in a shaky breath. How can someone so decent also be so charming and sly?

I have to chill out. The guy’s human, after all. He’s not perfect. He can’t be. There’s probably some unidentified childhood trauma bubbling under the surface where Jake Whitely is concerned. But I’m not his counselor. Or his boyfriend. I’m just the guy he invited over to get off with tonight.

Heat rises up my neck and hits the tips of my ears as I think about all the things I want to do with him. I didn’t know how badly I needed this until he put it out there as an option. Absolutely perfect timing. I don’t let myself hesitate when I reach the door of his unit.

I lift my fist to knock, but the door flies open before I can make contact.

“Hey,” he greets me, a grin taking over his whole face, one adorable dimple popping as he lifts an arm and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

This is the shit I’m talking about. Stupid hot. Genuinely nice.

He opens the door wider and ushers me inside. His hand brushes against my low back as he moves to pass me in the entry, and I stop myself from showing how that subtle graze affected me by clenching my abs and holding my breath.

“Come on in,” he encourages as he strolls into a pristine, modern kitchen. I’ve never been to his place before. I was so excited about tonight, I hadn’t given it much thought. It’s clean and contemporary without coming off as pretentious. Everything looks expensive, but it also looks lived in. Of course his house is an effortless balance. Just like him.

Anticipation slams into me as I look around his personal space. I’m at Jake’s house. I’m standing in Jake’s kitchen. And at some point tonight, I’ll be in Jake’s bed.

He saunters to the fridge before turning back to me. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine. I brought my water.”

I hold up my emotional support bottle and inwardly cringe. I must have grabbed it when I got out of the car out of habit. Phone, wallet, jacket, water. My subconscious knew I’d need to stay hydrated, but I probably didn’t need to draw attention to it like that.

Mierda.

“Do you mind if I have a drink?” he asks as he pulls a bottle of Great Lakes Lemon Hefeweizen out of the fridge. “It’s been a hell of a week.”

I smile at his courteousness, but can’t resist teasing him. “You know it’s only Monday, right?”

He pops the cap on a fancy wall-mounted mechanism, then takes a long swig. I watch, enraptured, as his Adam’s apple moves in rhythm with each swallow. Pulling the bottle away from his lips, he gives up this little noise of satisfaction—a mix between a sigh and a grunt—that makes my dick twitch in interest.

He sets the bottle down and catches me staring, but I don’t care. We’re both grown men. There’s no reason to play coy. I know exactly why I’m here.

“Believe me, I know. That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about tonight.” He circles the island and hops onto one of the stools, then pats the empty seat beside him.

I slide onto the stool, but have to pivot to face him because it isn’t pulled out far enough for my legs to fit. We’re close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted—and God do I want to—but if he wants to chat me up first, that’s fine, too. I can do small talk. Especially when I know what comes next.

“I found something out over the weekend,” he starts. “Something that changes everything.”

He’s not looking at me as he speaks, which is odd; he’s always so direct and confident. His gaze is fixed on the bottle in his hands, and he’s picking at the corner of the label mindlessly. Is he nervous?

“I can’t really tell you all the details. But it’s a big deal to me and to a lot of other people, too. There’s something I want to do. Have to do, really. But the only way it all works out is if I can come up with a lot of cash, fast. My dad left me a sizable inheritance, but I have to get married to get it. That’s where you come in. Or at least, where I hope you come in.”

What? Why is he being all vague and evasive? I’m barely following his monologue, and now he’s talking about marriage and an inheritance?

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you all the details or explain why this is all happening… I promise I will if you agree to go along with it. I’ll tell you everything, and I’ll give you half. It’s a ton of money, Cory. Like, a stupid amount of money.”

Is he already drunk? I’m beyond confused, but he doesn’t give me time to interject.